Pitch one it was. The field of dreams. That hallowed turf of pass and play football. Seldom offered to the lowly Grappenhall battlers but on this fine late November afternoon it was to be our arena.
Bring it on Bexton. Bottom of the table and from the look of them warming up, nothing to stir the inner fear.
PEM gave us the usual " Table of tables, League of leagues, game of games" gobbledygook rousing battle cry that only he understands, (or perhaps the similarly maligned Brendon too ? )
and off we went.
It all seemed a bit rushed for me. Running late and having arrived with minutes to spare I was kitted out and on the field and told I was centre mid with Tok before the Tiger balm had even started to sting. Looking around I saw a new fella at left back. No Cookie, tall and ginger he was. 'He's Matt but call him Leight' and the Bexton boys were through us and pushing on.
Come on Eales get a grip. 'Win us some headers" were my shouted on instructions.
....and up came the first ball, I jumped, not very high I grant you, arms out for balance and as the ball skidded of my head I heard this whining voice from my Bexton Opposite.
" 'Ere ref his arms are all over the place " or something to that effect and his whinging began.
We looked well set up. Back line of Leight/Matt, Big Dan, Wellsy (Class) and Mike Illif. The middle ground was me and Tok with Quent and Will on either side and gentleman Richard and Razor up top. Not forgetting Ray Elliott gracefully standing in for Rib ache Martin.
PEM (crocked) on the sidelines with eager Pete and Mecrow awaiting their chance. Torres looking at the pitch and weighing up the angles.
So not much in it really as the opening salvos were exchanged. They came down the sides and we went down the middle. They seemed to have a bit more movement and a tad more pace but it was all fairly even if truth be told.
The Bexton threat would come from the skinny runner playing across their front line. Didn't look all that but he never stopped. Pace and strength. Iliff had the unenviable task of shackling him in the first half which considering the leg length difference and the 15 year age gap, Illif won on points easily.
The game ached for a goal. They got it. A cross and flurry and the skinny one slammed it in from a couple of yards out.
Ouch.
No crests fallen here though. Off we went, plenty of grit and plenty of running from our mad Irishman. A fire in his belly Sambucca like, and he forayed down his flank like John Robertson in his prime ( Look him up Wellsy ) pinged one in from the touchline, somehow it ricocheted off the bar and Razor was there to bang it home. Left foot Volley. Stick that on your stat sheet Razor. A new column methinks!
Anyway, one all it was and that seemed about right. And the ref whistled us off for half time and the sun was shining brightly in our eyes and warming our backs and there was no finer place to be at that very moment in time.
PEM, animated, held court. I chatted to some old dears passing by and apologised for the profusion of choice language. They were enjoying the spectacle and didn't seem to mind.
Robbo I think his name was. One of the Bexton midfielders. Oh what a t***. He seemed to be the cause of the obscenities. Plenty having a moan about him as we refreshed and reorganised ourselves for the second half.
I suppose it was that he was such a fanny. I have no issue with Viera like fortitude, or keane like stout-heartedness or Batty like battling, but if you give it out you must expect also to receive and you absolutely must not whinge like a two year old when you get some back. And boy did he whinge.
He got under the skin of most I think it fair to say, eliciting from the bilingual and eloquent Quent a multiude of abuse which included the C word! ( and not Caramba) A handy barometer for the rest of us hot heads then, If Quent was steaming then we were certainly right to be.
Junior we missed you. You would have eaten him alive.
The second half got under-way and they scored straight off. A beauty of an in-swinging corner, no Coyney to pluck it out of the air, instead it fell at the far post for a 6 inch tap in.
Aaarrggghh.
Mecrow on, Pete on, and Wellsy moved into the middle. Class that lad. Shelvy like in the way he runs and looks up and runs and passes and moves and runs. He looks like him a bit too.
Ian Torres on on the right. Sticking to the flank and with the pencil from behind his ear began jotting down angles and distances.
We tired and slowed or did it just seem that way. They didn't. The skinny one up front causing no end of problems for our back line but then we had our chances too. A couple of scuffs and bobbles stood between us and the scoreline swinging in our favour.
Then they got another. The skinny one I think. A blast from within the box and we were three one down.
Torres put his pencil away and satisfied he'd worked out his spot sought to right matters for us all.
It took a while before he could contrive to have the ball at his feet in just the right place, that being 35 yards out near to the touchline, but once he had it, on that spot, he simply fired it like a rocket goal wards. Of course he knew full well what he was doing, having worked it all out before hand, it was the rest of us that looked on in open mouthed awe as it arched beautifully in that second and a half of silence that descends as we all stood statuesque and watched, only the goal keeper back peddled slightly to no avail. In she flew. Top corner. Goal of the season.
Three , two. Hope. Robbo the whinger continued with his puerile protests rubbing all up the wrong way. Matt/Leight gave him a clout. Big Dan gave him a clout. Quent continued to call him names from the sidelines and on we pushed, Pete and Jonjo linking up nicely and Dan foraying forward and Tok turning back the clock and Lampardlike bursting forward and we struck the bar and we pressed them close, but they got the next goal and killed the game off.
Another beauty of an in-swinging corner, landing at the far post for a simple nod in.
4 - 2.
Will came back on and we pushed as best we could but there was jelly in our legs and we were spent and that was that.
The ref blew and shut it all down.
We'd been turned over in our own back yard. They were not all that, not all that at all. And yet they went home with the points and we trudged off to take down the nets, deflated.
The sun dropped behind a vast black cloud and the air chilled instantly. The muddy field emptied and the air was silent.
The old dears shuffled off shaking their heads. Nothing new here today.
So we dissected it in the pub of course and we talked about fitness and we talked about tactics and we talked about the gob shite and we formulated a plan and this is it,
This Thursday is the Christmas do so we'll all get pissed and we'll worry about the football another day.
See you all then.
SCE
